


Memento mortuis

by stygianIronSword



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Guilt, POV Ned Stark, Prophetic Dreams, R Plus L Equals J, Recurring Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:51:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stygianIronSword/pseuds/stygianIronSword
Summary: Ned had been having the same dream for months. Always the same.





	Memento mortuis

Ned had not dreamt of his sister in years, but for the past few months he had been. It was not a memory, she was not bleeding out, not begging Ned to take her son and protect him in her stead, yet it felt just as real as if it were. He could remember every detail, for it was always the same dream. The same sadness etched into her young face, the same guilt eating at him and the same bleeding sky.

He would find himself in the godswood of Winterfell, with soft snow covering the ground as he walked towards the large wierwood tree. There he would always find Lyanna, clad every time in the same light gown of white silk, sitting on one of the tree’s large roots. Blood was pooled at her feet, though it was not her own. In her arms she held a body, a young man, though not grown yet, and he would never be, for Ned knew he was dead. The boy had the long face of the Starks, with ink black curls falling into his unseeing, slate gray eyes.

Then she would look at Ned, and he would feel his soul wither at the grief in her eyes.

_” You promised me, Ned. You promised you would protect him and raise him and love him as I would have.“_

He would always try to speak, tell her that her son was alive, that he had taken him to their home and raised him to be a Stark, but the words never formed on his lips, he could not speak. He would always stand there, unmoving, for he could not, watching his sister cradle her son’s body to her breast and cry.

Two teenagers, both dead, mother and son. His sister, long buried and forever haunting Ned’s past. His nephew, her son, gone and still bleeding from the many wounds that had claimed his life.

After a while, Lyanna would spare one last glance at Ned, saying nothing, before looking to her son, turning his face to her with a gentle hand and pressing her lips to his forehead, then tears would start flowing down her face again. So many they were that they washed away the blood on her son’s body as the wierwood burned, and ashened leaves would fall all around Lyanna and her son, filling the air with smoke, whilst the sky still bled.

**Author's Note:**

> This just sprang in my mind the other day and I had to write it. Also I know that corpses don't bleed but symbolism you know.


End file.
